Gigantic
by maricsblade
Summary: Prequel to "Let's Try This Again." Morrigan gets a surprise during the Dark Ritual. Kink!meme fill. In other words: rated M for a reason.


_Thanks to those who have favorited, and to Slashguy and julezz30 for reviewing!_

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_Response to this k!meme prompt: "The real reason Alistair is shy about sex? He's freakin' huge and worried about hurting his lover." The prompt listed the Dark Ritual as an option, but I twisted it up a little._

_Dedicated to Alistair: the Pixies' "Gigantic."_

_I write for reviews—what you liked and what you didn't!_

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Noting the look of terror on Alistair's face, Morrigan cackled with glee. She'd already stripped them both to their small clothes, and now the poor, dumb beast was scooting rapidly backward toward the headboard, apparently hoping a secret door would open and swallow him up.

She simpered. "What's the matter, Alistair? Surely you aren't afraid of little old me? Tell me 'tis not your first time." She reached behind her back and loosened the knot securing her bindings, letting them fall to the floor. As she sauntered closer, Alistair couldn't tear his eyes from her shapely, gently swaying breasts. He tried to resist as his prick initiated a flagrant and despicable act of treason, tingling and swelling at the sight of her as she stood, almost naked, before him.

Reaching the headboard, he halted his retreat and rested on his elbows. Morrigan's eyes roamed his body, taking in his broad, powerful shoulders, the ripples in his abdomen, his hard hips and sinewy legs. He had one knee up—an utterly sexy pose, though surely he was unaware of it—and the curve of his erection straining against his small clothes was making her mouth water. She felt her thoughts grow hazy as she was overcome by a wave of unbridled lust.

She noted a small problem: though his body looked willing, he was practically sneering at her. "Why would I tell you anything, Morrigan? We've hated each other since the day we met."

Her feline eyes flashed with malevolent glee. "'_Tis_ your first time! Poor little Alistair. Without me, you might have died a virgin."

"Shut up," he warned darkly. "Don't make me change my mind."

Keenly aware of his eager gaze, she teased her small clothes down her hips and gracefully stepped out of them. Then she reached up to remove her hairpins, watching his eyes follow the rise and fall of her breasts as she did so, and tossed her ebony locks until they fell enticingly about her shoulders. She crawled, cat-like, onto the bed, her eyes boring into his, and as she got closer he gritted his teeth.

She paused and smirked. "She turned you down, then? I knew Elissa was smarter than to take you to her bed."

In a flash he reached out and caught a fistful of her hair. "You leave Elissa out of this," he snarled.

Morrigan's mouth fell open. She really hadn't thought he had it in him.

"You need to get your story straight," he continued. "_I_ turned _her_ down."

He let go of her hair and Morrigan couldn't resist rolling her eyes, as if tempting him to do it again. "Pray tell, why would a lovestruck boy do such a thing?"

As he spoke, she noted with satisfaction the pain and regret that flitted across his face. "Because, unlike you, I'm a caring and considerate person. Because I couldn't ask a virgin to take _this_," he growled, grabbing her hand and placing it firmly on his erection. "Not a problem for a tart like you, of course."

She seemed not to hear him, or if she did, she didn't care. All her attention was focused on the monstrous phallus twitching under the stroke of her hand, her mouth an O of amazement, her eyes glowing like tiny, gilt saucers. Its head stood well clear of Alistair's small clothes and its shaft was as wide as her wrist, and for what was surely the first time in her life, Morrigan found herself speechless.

At her touch, Alistair grimaced and his eyelids fluttered closed. Her hand felt so good there—_belonged_ there. With effort, he forced himself to look at her. "What's the matter, Morrie?" he goaded. "Cat got your tongue? I can think of a better use for it."

When she finally spoke, her eyes were half-lidded and her voice was sultry. "It seems that what the Maker denied you in intellect, He made up for in other ways, Alistair," she allowed.

A thrill of victory raced up his spine. For the first time ever he'd caught Morrigan in a position of weakness, and it would take a stronger man than he to throw that advantage away. His initial intention to do only what was strictly required was fading rapidly, overtaken by a dark, all-consuming lust. Images danced in his mind: Morrigan's lips and tongue licking him up and down, lapping up his pre-cum, sucking firmly on his head and more gently on his balls. So his first time would not be sweet or gentle, kind or loving; neither would it be terrified, embarrassed, or guilt-ridden. This was Morrigan, the bitch, and he _didn't have to care_, and at that his cock throbbed wickedly in anticipation of what he was going to do to her.

"Suck it," he murmured, arching his back.

"Indeed I shall," she replied with mild amusement. Kneeling between his thighs, she slowly loosed the tie of his small clothes and tossed them to the floor, then lowered herself to her stomach and took a moment to admire his surging, engorged prick rising from its nest of reddish-gold curls. She calculated that she'd be lucky to take more than a couple of inches, but the pulsing low in her belly and the fluttering in her sex told her to get on with it and worry about tactics later. As Alistair watched her full lips part to taste his crown he saw a silvery drop of spittle fall in a beaded thread from her tongue, and he immediately screwed his eyes shut, lest it all end before it had even started.

Morrigan opened her mouth wide and tasted just the tip of him, licking the underside as she withdrew, and they groaned in unison. She hadn't had a man since before they'd all begun this fool's errand, and she'd almost forgotten what cock tasted like. She began licking and sucking him in earnest, all over, balls to slit, relishing all the attendant sensations: here he was salty, there bitter; here smooth, there ridged; here silken, there hairy. But everywhere, he was simply huge—long, thick, heavy. As she'd suspected she could hardly take him in, so she propped herself up on one elbow, spit into her other hand, wrapped it around the base of his shaft, and pumped him in time with the motion of her mouth. She couldn't close her fingers around him, not even close, but it would have to do.

Not that he seemed to mind. Alistair kept quiet, not wanting to give Morrigan the satisfaction of knowing what she was doing to him, but he was sure his hissing and gasps and the barely restrained thrusts of his hips were giving it all away. Fellatio was every bit as good as he'd always imagined—better, even—and while most of his brain was lost in a chant of _fuck_, _fuck_, _fuck_, a tiny part was busy cursing himself for all the years he'd wasted running away from this.

He was soaring, strung out in tight, wet heat, and he knew his release was imminent, but he held his tongue; she could damn well choke on it for all he cared. She didn't seem concerned, though; feeling him swell and twitch, she only sucked him harder, and when she started fondling his sac on top of everything else, he felt the first contraction and knew he was a goner. Overcome with pleasure, he erupted in her mouth, and while she made a valiant effort to catch it all, the imperfect fit dictated that some would end up on his belly and in his coarse, curly hair.

With a wry smile, Morrigan wiped the corner of her mouth on the back of her hand. "Did that please you?" she asked coyly. She knew the answer, of course; she'd heard similar utterances when he lost himself completely in physical exertion, during sword practice and in the heat of battle, and she'd tried to ignore the fact that some part of her found them rather arousing.

Still panting, he opened his eyes and shot her a look of annoyance. It was a peculiar expression of his, one eyebrow raised and one impossibly low, with which she was all too familiar. "Fishing for compliments?" he laughed bitterly. "I gave it up for you, didn't I? Name a single time in history when a man _hasn't_ enjoyed that."

"Fair enough," she retorted. She knew she was good. Better than good. She'd expected a bit of awestruck gratitude, _some_ sort of praise, but she supposed that's what she got for wasting her talents on an inexperienced dolt.

She moved to straddle him, and despite his obvious annoyance he pulled his knees up behind her, pushing her forward a bit to bring her within his reach. He had no particular interest in pleasing her, but while he waited for his recovery he might as well learn something useful. Besides, she was sitting up high now, and if he focused on her body he could just about block her face from his field of vision, maybe even pretend she was someone else.

Once she was settled in his lap, he eyed her breasts. Pale orbs covered in gooseflesh, nipples crimson and engorged—no doubt about it, they were spectacular. He'd had glimpses of them every day for months thanks to that ridiculous getup she wore, but being able to gape openly at them as they were now—completely bare, showing evidence of her excitement, within his grasp—it was something else entirely. He reached out slowly with both hands and fondled them, and she flinched.

"Alistair! You are not testing melons for ripeness in the Redcliffe market. Have a care with your approach."

He scowled at himself for not knowing better, and at her condescending tone. _Stop talking!_ he thought. _Stop reminding me you're __you__._ But he said nothing, and softened his touch as she'd commanded. Her reaction was instructive; within moments her posture changed from shrinking and defensive to brazen and demanding. She pushed forward into his hands, and when he brushed her nipples softly with his thumbs, she whimpered. _Whimpered!_ When he repeated the gesture, her head tipped back and she seemed to leave him and drift off to some other place.

He moved one hand to her mons and began to explore. He found her sopping wet, and the observation brought a smirk to his lips. Even an inexperienced man like him knew what that meant. As his fingers slipped easily over her hills and valleys he observed her reactions carefully, noting when her lips parted, when her eyebrows raised, when her face took on or lost that expression of delicious agony. Her scent filled his nostrils, and curiosity briefly drove him to consider tasting her. But no. If he couldn't bring himself to kiss her face—and truly, the thought repulsed him despite everything happening now between them—he wouldn't be kissing any other part of her, either. That was somehow too intimate. He resolved to save his mouth for one who deserved it.

When Morrigan found his middle finger at her entrance she pushed down, forcing it against and slightly into her. Taking her cue, he inserted it slowly, and it slipped in, so easily in, all the way to the third knuckle. With a gasp she writhed around it. Alistair removed his finger, drew it through some of the semen on his belly, and slipped it into her again. For a moment he sobered, reminded that this, after all, was the point; he was to impregnate her. For a moment he saw them in the abstract: a man and a woman about to perform a timeless, mundane ritual, in the pursuit of a clearly defined and equally mundane goal. But it made him want to sob that it was with her, and that this particular result would be _far_ from mundane, and that this ritual conducted with the woman he wanted was not likely to produce any such result, ever.

But lamenting it all wasn't going to save their lives, was it? He closed his eyes and tried to clear his thoughts. Her walls were squeezing his finger rhythmically now. His mind swiftly and unconsciously substituted his cock, and it was maddening, so tantalizing, and in moments he was hard again, throbbing and tapping heavily against her buttocks.

He added his index finger and Morrigan felt her nipples harden further. She was close, so close. She reached down to rub her clit, because it seemed Dimwit wasn't going to do it for her, but he smacked her hand away and moved his thumb to circle the spot she'd been angling for.

She came with a cry as Alistair watched her face intently. It seemed that women made the same laughable faces men did, but for some reason he wasn't finding it very funny. Not funny at all, in fact. Before she'd even stopped moaning he took her by her shoulders and lay her down beside him.

He moved to kneel near the foot of the bed. When she opened her eyes he was looming over her, one hand on the base of his erection, looking anxious and unsure of himself. She regarded the massive shaft hanging heavy between his legs and felt a distinct tingle between her own.

"I can't help thinking, Alistair, that somewhere some horse is moping about, feeling disappointed in his end of the bargain," she chortled.

"Ha, ha. Very funny." He grimaced, and his tone was strained. "Why don't you stop kidding around and help me out here?"

But she was already conjuring a bit of warm grease, and she rubbed her hands together and reached for him. "What—what's that?" he asked, startled. She sheathed him in it, and his eyes rolled back in his head and the only sound in the room was the sucking of air through his teeth.

"A bit of help," she said. "Despite all the evidence of my enthusiasm, we're going to need it."

He put one hand on each side of her head and let her take over. She grasped him and placed the head of his prick against something warm and wet, and he opened his eyes and looked down. The tip of him was no longer visible, lost beyond her midriff in dark, curly hair, and he couldn't believe that _it_ was finally about to happen.

Together they pushed his crown just inside, and Morrigan knew she'd been right that this would have to go very slowly. She pulled him back out and pushed him in a little farther, twisting a bit to spread the lubricant around. On the third press she hissed loudly. They probably shouldn't have done this so soon after she'd come; she was all tight again because of it. She dropped her hand and moved her hips a little, trying to work him in further, and for a moment she had to stop and admire the flexing of his abdomen as he followed her lead.

He took over and proceeded little by little. She'd never felt so filled up or spread so wide, not even the night she'd lost her virginity to one of her mother's hapless visitors. Being stretched so tight around him made her little bead hard and ready, and at his next movement she felt the muted spasms of a mild orgasm.

It was taking all of Alistair's control to keep from pushing himself all the way in, but given what she'd said that wouldn't work, so he had to content himself with progressing slowly. At last he was inside her all the way up to his testicles, and at the realization a flash of heat washed over his entire body. He wiggled around a bit and _Maker_, this was even better than her mouth—tighter, hotter, the sensations more constant, until he withdrew to enter her again.

As he gradually picked up the pace Morrigan reached up with both hands and rubbed his bulging triceps. So hard. Everything about him was so _hard_.

Through the fog of her desire Morrigan realized that if she would never have him again she wanted him in her favorite position, the one that made the hair on her neck stand up. "Alistair," she breathed. "Stop for a minute. I want to try something else."

He lunged into her and growled, his eyes closing with the pleasure of it. "Not a chance, Morrie. We can do that too, whatever it is, but I want to finish this way."

"Very well," she sighed, wrapping her legs around him. He heard her mumble, "That horse I spoke of must have been a mule."

Oh, but he'd make her pay for that! He pulled out and slammed back into her, causing her to cry out, and then began going at her in earnest. Soon sweat was beading on their foreheads and dripping down Alistair's nose. Morrigan tightened her belly and pushed back against him, and with each thrust he groaned and she climbed higher toward her peak. She watched his handsome face contort and his upper lip curl, and then, suddenly, he stopped moving.

"Now," he gasped. "Do it."

Oh, Alistair, ever accommodating, best intentions to the contrary! She quickly pulled away from him and rolled onto her knees, dropping to her elbows and pushing her hips into the air.

"Here. Like this." Her words commanded but her tone was desperate. He found her entrance and drove into her immediately, and in a few strokes he'd stumbled onto that spot, making her hair rise on her nape. There were so many things to recommend this position—his hands firmly on her hips, his freedom to move as he needed, his reach, the bedsheet teasing her hardened nipples, his balls slapping against her clit. She reached down to stroke herself and seconds later she came, hard, convulsing around him, with the roar of Alistair's own climax in her ears. He thrust into her a few more times and they collapsed together in a panting, sweaty heap.

They were quiet for a couple of minutes. Morrigan beamed at the ceiling. Her task was done. But what a pleasure to have been well and truly fucked for the first time in ages. And who would believe that _he_, of all people, had been responsible?

Alistair, by contrast, wore a troubled expression. He, Elissa, and Riordan were safe now; the Wardens would live. And his long years of apprehension were finally over. But at what cost? He couldn't bear to think about it.

Morrigan spoke first. "I take it you enjoyed yourself?"

He turned to look at the wall. "Again with the prompting! Why do you ask?"

"You left a pool of spittle on my back," she teased.

He made a face. "So roll over and wipe it off."

She made no move to do so, and seconds later he grabbed the top sheet and dried her. Whatever she thought of him, she really couldn't fault his manners.

That reminded her of something. "What was that you said earlier about…"—_don't mention Elissa_, she warned herself—"…not wanting to ask a virgin to take you?"

He sighed and closed his eyes. "The way they teased me at the monastery, I was sure I was a freak of nature and no woman would have me. And it didn't stop when I went to train with the templars. They never missed an opportunity in the baths…"

She clucked sympathetically. "They were just jealous, Alistair. It's quite the contrary. You do know that infants are born through that same channel?"

"I…" He groaned and smacked his forehead. He was such an idiot! How had he never thought of it that way? He wanted to crawl under the bed, or maybe bang his head against a wall. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"So what happens now? In the grand scheme of things, I mean." He'd forced himself to ask, but wasn't sure he really wanted to know.

"The Wardens survive the Archdemon," she stated flatly. "I disappear." She paused. "However, should we ever run across each other again, I'd not be averse to repeating this little encounter."

He rose, gathered his clothes, and began to dress. His mind replayed all the nasty things she'd ever said and done, and he found all of his inherent dislike of her still firmly in place. "You probably shouldn't ask," he replied, pulling his tunic over his head.

She sat back against the headboard now, the sheets pulled up under her arms. She shrugged, and the familiar expression of disdain returned to her face. "Suit yourself."

He grasped the door handle and looked back over his shoulder. "Yeah. That is so not happening. Goodbye, Morrigan." He closed the door behind him and, with a deep breath, took a moment in the hallway to gather his thoughts. He badly needed a bath. And some sleep. And most importantly, to talk to Elissa and ask her to forgive him for being such a fool.


End file.
